I shake the morbid thoughts away. It’s ridiculous to think I’d feel guilty shedding the blood of a guard. Especially one who is here with the express purpose of shedding mine.

But if I do this—if I deliberately ambush and kill without provocation—will I lose something I need? Something that keeps me from becoming like the Commander? Will it harden me toward violence the way repeatedly holding my knife builds calluses into the skin of my palm?

Or will it strengthen me into the kind of weapon I need to be to bring the Commander down?

“I’ll go out the back and circle around. I’ve already checked through the window at the opposite end. There’s no one watching us from behind. Give me at least an hour to work my way to them without being noticed. Then sneak out of the house as if you’re going looking for the package. While they’re focused on you, I’ll kill them.”

His voice is cold, empty, and more than a little scary. Gone is the courteous, understanding Melkin I’ve been traveling with for a week. In his place stands a fierce predator willing to do whatever he must to obliterate anyone who stands between him and Eloise.

I wonder if I’m catching a glimpse of who I’m becoming as well.

Banishing that unwelcome thought before it can take root, I nod my acceptance of his plan and follow him back downstairs. He leaves out the back door, and I mark time by lighting candles in the kitchen and assembling dinner from the supplies Dad keeps here. I eat my fill, leave plenty on the table for Melkin, and pack a spare travel sack with food supplies from the cupboards.

My hour is up. Checking that my knife slides easily from its sheath, I light a small torch, the better to make myself seen, and open the front door. The loamy scent of the sun-warmed ground is fading into the crisp chill of night. I creep along the length of the porch, peering beneath the boards as if I expect to find something.

My skin prickles with awareness. I’m being watched.

Which is exactly the point of this entire charade, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.

When Melkin doesn’t appear within the first few minutes, I leave the porch and wander to the side, still in full view of the guards at the tree line. I feel exposed with my brilliant little torch ablaze amidst the overgrown grass and the distant icy stars. The tingle of awareness becomes a full-fledged, adrenalin-fueled need to draw a weapon and be ready for anything.

I don’t ignore it.

Instead, I drop down, shove the lit end of the torch deep into the soft soil at my feet to extinguish it, and run as silently as I can away from the spot where I was last seen. In seconds, I hear someone crashing through the grass behind me.

I dodge to my left, drop to a crouch, and freeze. The darkness will cover me. The person following me doesn’t have a NightSeer mask, or I’d see its green glow.

He also doesn’t have the sense to stop moving once he no longer hears me. Soft footsteps creep toward the spot I just vacated. I slide my knife free without a sound, and ready myself.

The fear I felt earlier at the thought of shedding someone’s blood without giving them fair notice is gone. In its place is cold determination.

I’m not going to die. Not until the Commander lies in a pool of his own blood at my feet.

My pursuer is close enough that I can hear him breathe now, rough, uneven pants that speak of someone without the proper training to control his breathing when it matters most. I wait until he’s a mere three yards from me, and tense for my attack.

A hand snakes out from behind me and wraps around my mouth while a second hand grabs my knife hand before I can swing it back.

“Wait,” Melkin breathes against my ear, and I hold still.

My follower moves forward, making enough noise to announce his presence to any but an inexperienced fool, but I trust Melkin and wait.

By the time the man moves out of range, my muscles are stiff, and I can’t feel my lower legs. I turn to look at Melkin, his gaunt frame a black smudge against the starry sky.

“Who?” My voice is little more than a whisper.

“Rowansmark tracker.”

That doesn’t make sense. Any tracker worth his weight would’ve been on me before I ever knew what hit me. And if by some chance I managed to elude him, he wouldn’t have chased me in such a noisy, clumsy fashion.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. He killed the guards before I got there. Saw his handiwork. He’s an expert.”

“Then why act like an amateur?”

He looks at me, and the answer hits me. Because the tracker didn’t want to kill me. He wanted to flush me out so he could capture me and force me to reveal the location of the package to him. The realization adds fuel to the adrenalin already pounding through me. The cruelty of Rowansmark trackers is legendary. Some say they carve off pieces of their victims and feed it to the vultures bit by bit while the person bleeds and begs. Some say they know how to kill their victims with a single, deadly touch.

On our second-to-last trip to Rowansmark, we entered the city through an aisle of half-rotted human heads skewered on stakes. Five on one side. Six on another. An entire band of highwaymen who’d had the stupidity to try cheating Rowansmark merchants out of their coin.

What would a tracker do to me to get the location of the package stolen from his leader? My skin is icy as I turn to Melkin.

“We need to leave.”

Melkin nods, and together we slowly circle back to the house. I crouch in the shadow of a tree, my knife ready, while Melkin slips inside and snatches up my pack, my Switch, and the bag of food supplies. When he returns, we melt silently into the tree line behind the house and make our way south, our weapons out, our ears straining to catch the sound of pursuit.